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confessing it. This is what poems are:
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The wildflowers scatter in warm tints until
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The middle one’s the conversation
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Each time I go outside the world
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“Makes me end,
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sweet sunset scent from unseen source,
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He fell that morning, Daedalus-like, into the sea
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Where can we go
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Yes, now that this exists in time, I thought,
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he sits on a rock & watches his friends